Do You Hate Me?
by madderreds
Summary: A quick little drabble based on the FMA manga, and the scene where Al confronts Ed about his suspicions. Just some practice writing that I liked. Rated T for possible Elricest for (possible) later chapters.


"_I never asked for this damn body!_"

The room fell silent at the outburst. Even Maes, the eternal (and incredibly annoying, in Ed's own opinion) chatterbox, fell silent.

Remorse immediately engulfed Ed—he hated to see his brother upset, hated it even more when _he _was the cause. "You're right," he said, "I'm sorry, Al." The armor stood above him, glaring at him, even though he knew full well that it couldn't. He sighed.

"You're right," he said again, his guilt and sadness resurfacing from the recesses of his mind, "it's my fault that all of this happened." He smiled up at Al, trying to reassure Al—and himself—that everything would be better soon. "That's why I want to get you back to normal as soon as possible."

The armor shifted, turning its glare from Ed to the wall. Ed stiffened.

"Is there _really_ any guarantee that we can get our original bodies back?"

The words, quietly spoken, echoed in Ed's mind as loudly as if Al had shouted the words in his face. Trying to quell the fear growing in his gut, Ed cleared his throat. And again, willing his tongue to form words.

"I'll get you back to normal, Al," he said, his voice cracking, "you just gotta believe me!"

"_Believe_ you?" Al snorted derisively. "What am I supposed to _believe_ in this empty shell of a body?!" His voice became louder, angrier, and the growing fear in Ed's gut started to make him nauseous, dizzy. "According to alchemic theory," Al continued, coming to stand menacingly over the hospital bed, "human beings are composed of a physical body, mind, and soul."

Trying hard to to shrink, engulfed by the shadow of his younger brother, Ed nodded hesitantly, unsure of where Al's logic was heading. His throat constricted with tears—he _hated_ to see Al so upset. It hurt him more than any automail surgery, any injury ever could.

There was silence for a few beats, Al staring down angrily at the hospital bed, and Ed struggling to control his rising panic.

"You once told me," Al said finally, "that there was something you wanted to tell me. Something that you were too _afraid _to tell me."

Ed's heart skipped a beat, his fear nearly making him throw up. He opened his mouth, but between battling rising tears and the urge to throw up, he could barely croak out "yes."

Al leaned closer to Ed's face. "What was it, _brother_?" he hissed, the word "brother" dripping with sarcasm. "_Maybe_ you wanted to tell me that my soul and all of my memories are _fake_! That Alphonse Elric doesn't exist, and that I'm just your _experiment_!"

Those last words, nearly screamed into Ed's face, knocked the breath out of him. He lifted his remaining arm and hand, to reach out or to slap, and opened his mouth to speak. But he couldn't. His arm—stupid, weak—fell uselessly to his side, his mind still too shocked to find words.

"_Well_, 'brother'? What do you have to say to _that_?"

Ed still couldn't speak. He wanted to beat Al senseless, wanted to knock some sense into his younger brother; he wanted to hug him and whisper that everything was going to be okay. But he couldn't—he was too weak. His fault, of course. All of it, his fault. He wanted to scream back into his younger brother face, call him a stupid idiot, but the more reasonable side of him held back.

_Do you hate me?_ a small, scared voice in the back of his mind had tried to ask.

He had his answer.

Ignoring the stabs of pain shooting up his legs and side, Ed stood up, shrugging off the anxious hands that tried to make him sit back down. "So this is how you feel, huh, Al?" he asked, keeping his voice as level as he could. The armor that was Al—his soul, his memories, his everything—continued to glare, giving no response. Ed sighed.

He walked through the door, intent on finding somewhere—anywhere—where he be alone, away from the accusing eyes of his younger brother.

The rooftop was blissfully quiet. The wind bit through the thin fabric of his hospital gown, but it didn't register. It was nothing—he'd been through worse. He leaned against the railing, trying to slow down his breathing. It sounded suspiciously like sobbing, and he fucking hated crying.

Al hated him.

It was an odd relief, to finally know.

Even if it hurt.

But what hurt more was knowing that _Al_ was hurting. Ed could care less about his own problems; they were all his own fault, anyways. But to cause anyone pain—least of all _Al_, his baby brother, his everything, all that he had left—that was another matter entirely. Seeing the anger in Al's glare was enough to make him curl up and wish for death.

He wouldn't, of course. He would suffer through until the very end, until he had that damn Philosopher's Stone in his hand. Even if Al hated him and never forgave him: he would get Al his body back.

And then, when he'd done what he had to, _then_ he would finally give in.

He couldn't—_wouldn't_—live without his other half.


End file.
